


Playboy

by AlphaStarr



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Playboy Bunny AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playboy Bunny John Egbert breaks a lot of rules. One of his patrons, movie director Dave Strider, is largely responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playboy

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be more PlayboyBunny!John. That needs to be a thing.
> 
> Originally published on my Tumbr at the following address:
> 
> http://specsexual.tumblr.com/post/36755829835/there-needs-to-be-more-playboybunny-john-that

You are John Egbert, and you are a Playboy Bunny.

There's a funny story how you managed to get this job, actually, working in one of Seattle's top gentlemen's clubs, serving drinks to men with too much free time and by far too much money. You'd intended to apply for the open position of floor magician, initially-- it was your goal to eventually be  _the greatest_  performing trickster, kind of like some modern-day Houdini who also told jokes.

You were good, but apparently, not good enough. The job went to some douchebag with purple hair who promised them "not magic, but real science!" You kind of get the feeling he was serious about the science thing, but oh man. Even  _you_  had to admit that he was so terrible, he was ironically hilarious. You didn't stand a chance.

The point of it was that you were in Seattle, out of a job, with no money to pay rent, no formal college education (unless those two years of vocational magic school counted), and in a new club with several job vacancies available. You'd panicked.

You'd applied for the job, and manager had hired you on the spot.

You still weren't that great at remembering how to mix all the drinks, and you weren't exactly the most graceful Bunny, either, but as the manager had said: "a rump that plush doesn't come around every day." It's a little embarrassing, but your fine ass is probably the only reason you still  _have_  a job.

As per usual, you round the corner into the back door of the club, swipe your ID card, and enter the back room just in the nick of time, out of breath, and thoroughly disarrayed from running through city traffic.

"Almost late again, I see," your 'Bunny Mother', Rose Lalonde, scolds you lightheartedly, patting your flyaway hair down a little.

"Hey, I'm still on time, aren't I?" you grin back, rubbing at the back of your head and successfully messing your hair up further. "Sorry, though, I guess."

A lot of the newer people get intimidated by her, which you think is reasonable considering she's in charge of who gets what hours and how everyone is trained and who gets fired. You think she is pretty cool, though! This is actually only her part-time job, and she does something else during the day (you think maybe she might be a novelist?). Either way, Rose is pretty awesome.

"Oh, woe is me," she remarks dryly, eyeing you in amusement with eyebrows raised in jest. "It appears I don't even get a proper apology. And after all that work I did getting you into the Mating Division."

"Oh my god!" you bite back a laugh behind your massive buck teeth. The pun is pretty funny, you can't deny it. "Don't even joke about that! Mating is like the last thing I'm going to do."

"I see I will continue to go unappreciated," Rose quietly snickers before straightening her back to indicate she's got something actually relevant to say. "Regardless, the manager wants to talk to you. I believe you're being promoted. Congratulations in advance."

"Oh, really?" you smile at her, trying to hide your nervousness. You hate talking with your manager. "All right, sure. Thanks for the heads up!"

You gulp once Rose is out of sight, and thoroughly preoccupied with making sure Aradia's patent uniform isn't in need of repair. While your manager isn't so bad, you are more than just slightly unnerved by certain... other things that he keeps on his person, such as...

"AAAA!" you jump, startled as you're confronted with dead, glassy eyes and an immobile, toothy grin. God, you especially hate Lil Cal and his tendency to pop out of nowhere. "There are better ways to say hi, you know!"

"Au contraire, Mr. Egbert," your manager's face remains at an impasse but his voice betrays his amusement. Looking at you just slightly over pointed shades, Dirk Strider adds, "As I'm sure you know, you're being promoted tonight. We've got some very important clientele up from Hollywood, and the VIP room's shorthanded."

"Hollywood?" your mind is abuzz with possibilities. Who could they be? Maybe one of your favorite actors, who were (admittedly) probably a little old for the nightclub scene would choose a classy place like this instead! Maybe...

"Hold your horses there, kid, don't let your imagination get away from you just yet," Dirk's southern twang pulls you out of your thought process. "It's just my hotshot brother and a couple of his Hollywood friends. Y'know, Dave Strider?"

You look at him for a couple minutes, trying to recall where you'd heard that name before. Maybe at last year's Oscars ceremony, in the list of celebrities that you didn't really care about? Maybe as like, a stunt double in the credits of a movie (he was Dirk's brother; any brother of Dirk's would probably have the ability to stunt double, right)?  Your brow furrows.

"Really? I thought you of all people would recognize him," Dirk adds. "He directed  _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff: The Moivie_."

You bite your lip quizzically, attempting to remember where you'd heard that name before, "You mean the one with Ben Stiller in it?"

"Yes, that one," Dirk remarks dryly. "Though I thought a movie nut like you would recognize this year's bestselling film. Anyways, your new uniform's in your locker. Try not to mess it up. I just put it together today."

"Ok!" you agree. You're not exactly the best at not spilling stuff on your uniform, but you can usually manage to avoid any spills for at least a week.

"All right, come see me if it doesn't fit anywhere. We've got enough time to make a couple minor adjustments," Dirk informs you. "You know where to find me."

"Will do," you nod, before heading off to the dressing area. You open your locker and grab the white dry-cleaning bag before stumbling into a tiny cubicle, thankfully not having to wait for one.

When you take your new suit out of the bag, you're a little surprised at how different it is from your old one. The fabric is deep red instead of dark blue, and ever-so-slightly softer, leaving only the tightness of your outfit to hold it up. You don the blue ears and white cuffs as usual before adorning the black semitransparent tights and suiting up, pulling the top over to completely cover your thin chest. You reach for your unzipped back, slipping a hand into your tights to fish the string of your thong out of your crack so it can stop giving you a wedgie (shut up; it's literally impossible to hide any other form of underwear under the suit). You slide on your bleached-and-starched collar before strapping yourself into your chunky dark blue pumps and finding someone to zip up your back for you and pin in your tail.

The part of the corset over your chest begins to droop, and you figure you'd better go pay Dirk a visit. You thank Feferi for her help, and hitch up that part of your suit before heading to the room where he does all of his tailor work. You used to have an official seamstress on hand, but her mom made her quit or something like that, so now Dirk does all the sewing repairs.

You open the door to his office and are met with the sight of your boss with his face buried in Jake's ass. Normal.

"Salutations there, old chap!" Jake waves at you from where he's bent over the desk. "What's the haps?"

"I think I need some adjustments," you shrug, perching on a chair out of habit. "You?"

"He bust his ass working," Dirk backs away from Jake's voluptuous bottom, swatting at the seam he'd just repaired on the forest green suit. "Again. Try to take it easy this time, all right?"

"Will do, sir!" Jake pushes himself off the desk and wiggles his bunny tail to double check for inconsistencies. As is usual with all of Dirk's careful stitching, there are none. "It's good as new! Thanks again."

"Yeah, yeah," the corner of Dirk's mouth quirks upward ever-so-slightly. "Now get to your position. The early arrivals will be getting here soon."

"Right away, sir!" Jake grins and salutes him before hurrying out to the door, prepared for a night of hauling coats into the coatroom and leading men to tables and private rooms.

Dirk re-averts his attention to you, "Now, what d'you need?"

"I think the chestpiece needs to be re-adjusted," you inform him, pulling it up again. 

"Yeah, looks like it," he nods, threading up his needle with red nylon. His face inches a little closer to where he takes it in on the side, and you raise your arm to allow him room to work. He repeats the motions on the other side, "That should do it. Report to the VIP area, wait in the Red Room. Perch on the arm of the armchair. You'll be Dave's personal escort tonight."

"Got it!" you chirp, giving him a two-fingered 'Bunny Salute' and scurrying into the room in the pre-evening bustle of the club. Bunnies take their places left and right, locating the rooms where they'll spend the evening. You give a wave at Jane in the main atrium; she's busy practicing this evening's piano pieces but she still nods at you deferentially.

You eventually make your way into the Red Room, where you find Vriska already behind the bar and setting up glasses and another girl setting up some stuff for the douchebag's magic show. You don't remember her name, really, but the olive-green bunny suit strikes you as familiar; the ribbon on her hip says "Nepeta".

You wave at Vriska and she grins back toothily. You're tempted to go over and talk to her, but you have no idea whether Nepeta is a play-by-the-rules bunny or more of a rogue. You could get in a lot of trouble for not following orders, so you perch yourself on the arm of the very comfortable-looking, plush red velvet armchair. It's better to play it safe.

"This is your room, gentlemen," you hear Jake's voice already just outside your door. The door swings open and you smile at him as he holds it open for the patrons. You think one of those guys might be Ben Stiller. You have absolutely no clue who the rest are.

"And, of course, you, Mr. Strider," Jake speaks to someone who's still outside the room. "Your order of nachos will be here in a few minutes. Please enjoy your evening."

"Yeah ok thanks," you are surprised by the voice that responds, significantly less Southern-sounding than Dirk's. "Can't have a party without some sickass nanchos, man. I appreciate it."

Jake exits, and that's your cue to spring off your perch, ready for service. Your thong is riding up your butt again, but you can't fix it; you're at work.

Right behind him is.. wow. Is  _that_  Dave Strider?

He's tall, you notice. Like, really tall, and not just because you're kind of on the short side (five-foot three was a perfectly respectable height). He had to be at least a foot taller than you, maybe more. He was kind of gawky and skinny, but somehow it suited him. Maybe it was the suit or something, who knew? He looked like some huge, awkward dork, but ironically enough, he was so dorky, he was actually hot. How does that even work?

You aren't entirely certain. What you  _are_  certain about is that Dave Strider is probably the most attractive guy you've ever seen. Ever.

You almost forget to bend over in a polite bow at the guy before falling into the Bunny Stance, with your hips curled under your waist and your back perfectly erect. His eyes are obscured by dark frames, but you get the feeling that he's looking at you-- which is kind of a dumb idea, haha.

He sits down and faces forward, but you still feel his gaze on you, a definitely weird phenomenon. You shake that thought from your head and get on with business.

"Would you like something to drink?" you ask him. Vriska and Nepeta are already busy taking care of the other eighteen patrons, one of whom is, now that you can see clearly, actually a woman. A couple of other bunnies are arriving in the room with appetizers (nachos?) and are joining them in their serving.

"Yeah, a drink sounds good," his face turns in your direction. "I'll take an appletini."

You blink at him a few times, "A what?"

"An appletini," he sounds almost amused. "C'mon, you've got one of the largest bars at your disposal and you don't know what an appletini is?"

"Um, no, I do, I'll have it right to you," you stammer, completely bewildered as to why he'd order something as common as an appletini when you had the largest variety of alcohol in the entire state of Washington. "Shaken or stirred?"

"Shaken," he answers, and you get the feeling that his eyes are on you again. It's not like you're not used to being looked at-- you  _are_  a bunny, after all-- but there's something different about this guy.

****

==> Be the other guy.

You are now Dave Strider, director extraordinaire, and damn.

That man.

There are times when you really hate your brother, but oh fuck. This is definitely not one of them.

It's no secret that you swing both ways, and Dirk knows that. You'd be willing to bet that he'd given you a bunny that was exactly your type, cute and dorky-looking with a nice butt and pretty eyes. He's a nice piece of eye-candy, that's for sure. You kind of wish you could touch him, just maybe have him sit in your lap and eat carrots with his all-fucks-of-kawaii buck teeth while you pet his hair (you've got a weak spot for adorable shit, and you'll take a sword to anyone who mocks you for it). Of course, Playboy operates on a very particular 'look don't touch' kind of thing, and according to club rules you could get thrown out for even accidentally bumping into one of the bunnies, or looking at them in a way they don't like.

You wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks. You refrain from posing the same question about his ass for as long as possible, but the way he shifts his hips as he waits for your drink isn't helping much. You eyes glaze over his slim legs, made to look longer by his elevated shoes and exposed thighs. He's not exactly the textbook definition of elegant, but there's something about him that just draws you in.

"What the fuck is up with you, douchebag?" your bodyguard and publicity specialist, Karkat Vantas, growls at you. He's a little too stiff, but you can fly with that; you really doubt you could find a better person to protect you from lunatics and paparazzi alike. "Get on with that shit you've got to tell us all. I didn't come out here to watch you drown your chitinous windpipe in overpriced alcohol."

You accept your beverage from your server, discreetly looking down at his hip to... okay, well, to eye his ass, but also to get his name. John. It suits him.

"Hey, asslicker, are you even listening to me?" Karkat's hand comes down in front of your face and interrupts your view of John's hips. "I said, get the fucking show on the road before we all expire of anticipation!"

You play it cool, sipping at your appletini for a second. Karkat  _would_  chew you out for being distracted when you've got hells of important announcements to make. Picking up the fork from your place setting (prepared for dinner, which should take place in a few minutes or so), you tap the triangular glass just loud enough to get everyone's attention. Conversation stills to a hum, and you stand.

"Sup, guys," you greet them. "As you all know, we've just had a pretty awesome year down in LA. You are the stars, they're you."

You give a pause for everyone in the room to cheer and applaud. You've brought only the heads of your staff-- the top makeup artist, the head digital editor, the head cameraman, your lead actors. They're going pretty wild-- you did, after all, just have a pretty awesome year.

"You're probably aware that Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff's sequel movie's script is being worked out right now," you add once the applause slows. "And I just wanted to make sure you were all still on board with the coolest movie franchise in the history of filmography. I'm reminding you now to remember to renew your contracts and shit before the ship leaves the harbor next month. SBaHJ can't sail without her crew, that sickass cruise ship isn't gonna take care of itself. Hope to see you all back on set in a few weeks."

You are met with several affirmative exclamations and you lift your glass.

"A toast to another successful year, then," you remark, taking a sip of your ironically fruity beverage. Then, you sit back down, and the room falls into a much more casual, party atmosphere.

Which leaves you free to ogle your cute little server.

He's sitting on the arm of your chair, much closer to you than most people get to be. For some odd reason, you don't mind-- it's almost like you know him from another life or something like that. Ha. Maybe another universe.

His eyes meet yours in the next second, startling you by almost instantly picking them out in the black sea that is your glasses. You stare into his irises of perhaps the most beautiful blue you've seen, and you're tempted to remove your specs so you can see them in their full glory, unmarred by the tinting of dark glass.

There is a note of familiarity in that gaze, even though you've never met before. You'd even go as far as to say you'd never seen this kid in your life, not even in passing. You're sure of it-- you'd have remembered those stunningly bright eyes and this half-haunting ghost of a feeling you've got about him. You feel like his brilliant gaze is knitting your souls together, as if they were meant to be part if one huge, gaudy, but warm-as-fuck Christmas sweater.

It's pretty unnerving.

He averts his eyes, and in the corner of your vision, you can see him bite his lip, and shit-- you almost cannot handle the degree of cute. His slightly elongated teeth make him look especially bunny-like, and just as pettable. His hips shift, and his tail twitches realistically. He is reaching unreal levels of adorable here.

You lift your appletini to your lips again, draining the glass without ceasing the shaded stare at your waiter. You reach the bottom of the glass and the Maraschino cherry at the bottom tumbles into your mouth. You bite down on it and taste the red, sweet, flesh of the fruit and, as an afterthought, tie the stem into a knot with your tongue. You remove that from your mouth and drop it back in the glass.

"Would you like another drink?" John asks, seeming almost as eager to talk to you as you are to talk to him.

"Yeah, another drink sounds good," you answer. Not eager to stop yet, you continue, "Heard the booze here's pretty good. As good as appletinis are, it'd be a fuckin' crime not to try something else. I'm like a little kid being given free reign of a hugeass amusement park all up in here. Literally a playground of epic proportions. It'd be dumb to only ride the shitty ass ferris wheel. What do you recommend?"

He blinks at you a couple times and then giggles with a quiet "hehehe" stifled behind his fingers. Beaming at you, he answers.

"Well, um... Bacardis are pretty popular," he tells you, apparently not that great at remembering stuff. "We recently got in a shipment of sake, and I heard the Tamagozakes were good."

The second one is Dirk's recommendation. You can tell that right off the bat-- he made you drink that shit when you were sick, since it was some sort of remedy. You don't want either of those.

"Yeah, yeah," you nod at him. "But you didn't answer my question. What do  _you_  like?"

He looks at you quizzically before replying, "I like Sex on the Beach."

The corner of your mouth twitches upward in a smirk, "What a coincidence. So do I. In fact, any time I have it, I have an Orgasm, too."

"Um, what?" he's already breaking what must be ten Bunny Rules (or whatever the fuck they're called), he's laughing so hard.

"I'll order a Sex on the Beach," you clarify. "And an Orgasm, the shooter kind."

"The shooter kind?" he repeats, raising his eyebrows up and down suggestively, joking like you're old friends.

"Yeah, the shooter kind," you confirm, your smirk threatening to break free into what may be an actual smile.

"Ok, I'll get that to you right away," John laughs, the half-snort giggle resonating with a chord of familiarity inside you.

He drops an amused wink in your general direction, before turning on his fluffy white tail and trotting to the bar, his rump swaying with every step he takes on unstable heels. You want him, just like you always have, yet never have before. And, unlike any of your (plentiful) celebrity affairs, you want to do more with him than fuck him once and be done with it. You want to tell him anything and everything you've ever thought, write him terrible remixes of songs from the 1980s, and watch shitty movies with him all night. They're weird things to want from a relationship--  _any_  relationship, mind you, even a friendship-- but you want to do this for him.

Which is weird and immensely awkward, because you didn't even know this kid until tonight.

But, shit, even if you don't know him, you sure feel like you do.

****

==> John: Violate the terms of your contract.

You are once again John Egbert, and you are very thoroughly weirded out.

You've always been into the paranormal, yeah, but the vibe you're getting from Dave is really, really... just weird. But not a bad weird. A good weird.

Actually, a really, really good weird.

You are totally certain you've never seen this guy in your life-- whatever type of movie he made, you'd never watched it. You'd only heard the movie's name once before, and that was because Liv Tyler was thinking of dropping out of  _Armageddon II_  to join the cast. But it's like, you  _know_  him.

You want to do crazy things with him, like getting involved in a prank war or building blanket forts or having a music jam (does he play turntables? he looks like the plays turntables). There is even a teeny, tiny (ginormous) part of you that kind of wants to kiss him, which is not okay because he probably isn't homosexual. Not that you are, either, but you think that maybe, just possibly, you could make an exception.

You've got to be out of you mind. You just met the guy.

You pick up the two beverages on your little silver tray before heading over in his direction. You neatly slide the drinks onto the table before his armchair, grateful that you haven't dropped anything (yet).

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

Better to stick to protocol for now; your job's already endangered by the laughing spell you'd had earlier. You're not technically supposed to do more than giggle flirtatiously; it's part of the atmosphere.

"I think I'm good," he replies, his facial expression impassive but voice lighthearted. "Unless you're offering to feed me nachos like I'm a Roman emperor. In which case, yeah, I'll take you up on that."

On an impulse, you draw the nearest basket of nachos closer to Dave and lean in, lifting one to his face.

"Maybe I am," you smirk jokingly, your Prankster's Gambit swelling in anticipation. You aren't technically supposed to get this close to a client, and you aren't technically supposed to touch the food, either, except to serve it. This totally counts as serving, though, right? You're just doing your job, and if you get a little fun out of it, too, then what's the harm?

Dave surprises you, though, parting his lips to bite down on the nacho between your fingers. Without touching your hand, he consumes it-- licking the salt off the tips of your fingers as he finishes. You shudder a little because gosh that's hot, and his smirk shows that he is the one who received the gambit boost. It is him.

"Yum," he states flatly.

You can't help it; you laugh.

The other side of his mouth stretches backwards and, for a second, you think that he's almost going to smile. He doesn't, you realize, because you're still in a public-ish club (oops; for a second there, you'd forgotten there were other people in the room).

"Hey," his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. His finger rests on the rim of the Orgasm, tapping it. "You ever had one of these before?"

You're a little confused by the question, but you still answer it, "Um, no."

"Well then, John," his voice has a note of humor in it. "How'd you like to have your first Orgasm?"

The innuendo makes you giggle.

"I dunno, Dave," you answer thoughtfully. "I'm supposed to abstain from that on the job."

"Aw, come on. Just a quickie," he goads you, keeping up the joke. " _I'm_  not going to tell anyone."

You glance at the drink. It does look really good, but you aren't allowed to have alcohol on the job. You're barely coordinated enough sober; you doubt you could finish the night's work after a drink.

"Sorry, I really can't," you frown. "I need to be able to walk straight for the rest of the night."

"That's a shame," he agrees, similarly perplexed. He opens his mouth for a second before closing it, then opening it again and finally saying, "When do you get off?"

"In about three hours," you reply, checking the nearest clock. "My shift ends at ten. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering if you were gonna be busy tonight," he answers with an air of faux-suaveness. In all actuality, he sounds more like a nervous teenager asking his first girlfriend to prom, but that's kind of adorable, too, so you leave it be. "I was hoping to maybe, I dunno, get to know you or something. If you want, I mean. Because if you don't, that's okay, too. Well, not really okay, but I'd respect that, you know? Cause, yeah, it'd be rude as hell to stalk you and not the good kind of rude either--"

You break the rules again by pressing a finger to Dave's lips, silencing him. God, you really,  _really_  hope Nepeta isn't the tattletale kind.

"It's a date," you say, and you are pretty sure you could lose your job just from the way Dave is looking at you, like he's a starving wolf and you, little bunny, are his next meal.

After all, the first and foremost rule of being a Bunny is "DO NOT DATE A PATRON".


End file.
